Learning How To Hate
by Luinlith
Summary: “Cry as he might, he did not whimper. Whimpering was for pathetic people. He was not pathetic.” A look into how this boy was raised as a child. Just trying to picture it.


Learning How to Hate  
  
"Cry as he might, he did not whimper. Whimpering was for pathetic people. He was not pathetic." A look into how this boy was raised as a child. Just trying to picture it.  
  
Disclaimers: I own nothing. Nada. All characters from Harry Potter are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, and I claim none of them! And yes, Journalism is getting to me! Dinx my friend, this is not plagiarism (right?)! Ahehe.  
  
A/N: I think a lot of people have written fics like these (though I haven't read much), sooo.well, so something. Just hope you enjoy it, even if it's short. Read and Review please! Reviews much appreciated. ::grins widely:: Thanks!  
  
  
  
A little boy carrying a small black backpack and a lunch box entered the quiet home dripping wet from head to toe. There was no rain, nor was there any signs of a watering spell gone wrong. He bore a sour and angered expression in his face as he trudged along the newly cleaned hallway, then to the carpeted living room. A middle-aged woman was knitting as she sat on a long sofa that filled the space designated to entertain visitors. Noticing that a person was approaching her, she looked up with a knowing face and a warm greeting.  
  
"My dear son, home already! Come and give your mum - what.what happened dear?"  
  
The woman dropped her knitting tools and immediately approached her son who stood in front of her, motionless. The boy concentrated on looking at the floor. He did not look into her eyes, like she did to him. He didn't want her to see him. He did not want to face her.  
  
"You're.wet, and.come, come.let's get you some new robes." The mother lovingly held her son's hand, but he retracted. He dropped his lunch box and his bag, and put his hands on either side of his pockets, walking ahead of his mother. She followed, trying to catch up to walk beside him.  
  
Together they walked a flight of stairs to the boy's room. Silence engulfed the mother and son as they took the trip together, where the only noise that could be heard was the short squeak the vintage staircase gave out at certain times. When they arrived the room, the mother opened a closet and took out a newly cleaned robe for her son to wear. She took out a towel too, and motioned for his son to approach her. When he did, she wrapped the towel around his head and began to dry his disheveled hair. After that, she took off the shirt the boy was wearing that was now soaking wet, wiped him dry and dressed the boy with his usual home robes, a dark shade of green. When she was about to tell her son to go into the bathroom and change his trousers, the boy began to speak in a low murmur.  
  
"I hate them." He looked straight and did not do anything else.  
  
"Hate who, dear?" The mother asked, trying to decipher her son's emotions. She held his arms tightly and stared into his eyes, but he closed them. His body tensed and became stiff, his hands clenched into fists.  
  
"They went too far!" he violently exclaimed, freeing himself forcefully from his mother's hold.  
  
" Are.are they bullying you again?" The mother replied in a low whisper, her eyes still showing her affection for her son. Her heart ached to see him already this angry at such a young age. She did not wish to have a son who grew up hating the world. She just couldn't, wouldn't see that happen.  
  
The boy did not give an answer to his mother's question. He sat on his bed slowly, clenching the dark-colored sheets that were just changed earlier that morning. Tears fell from his tightly closed eyes. Cry as he might, he did not whimper. Whimpering was for pathetic people. He was not pathetic. He tried not to cry, and kept it pent up inside. But the tears started to fall, and he did not have any more power to stop it.  
  
The mother knelt down before her son and tried to take his hands and hold them tightly, but the boy would not let her.  
  
"I am not weak! Stop holding me!" He again exclaimed, throwing is mother's hands rashly to the side.  
  
The mother stared at her son with disbelief, and guilt. What could she have done that could have let her son grow into a person like this? A seven-year- old boy who already knew how to hate, and didn't consider the woman who tried to hold his hands and comfort him as a mother.  
  
Or that was how she felt. Her son never ran to mummy for anything, and this pained her. She wanted to be loved too.  
  
"Crying again? This is beginning to look pathetic." A familiar cold voice spat out from behind the mother. She knew all too well who it was.  
  
"Have I never taught you anything? Tears are signs of weakness, vulnerability, defeat. Men of our stature are not weak, or have you forgotten?"  
  
"The mother stood up to face the man, and spoke defiantly. "Are you not going to end this bloody crazy talk? Do you see that he's hurt? What you're doing to him.it's just.just not right! He doesn't belong there! They all treat him wrongly because he's not like them and doesn't understand what they do! You don't need to do this!"  
  
The man simply turned his head and went eye-to-eye with the mother. "Get out. I will deal with you later."  
  
Her feet started to shake in fear, but she didn't want to leave her son. She was going to stay, no matter what.  
  
"Say what you have to say to him, but I will stand here until you are out of this room." She boldly proclaimed, her own hands balled into fists.  
  
The boy still sat motionless on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixated on his knees. He had stopped crying when his father entered the room. It was an automatic action every time.  
  
"Well then, suit yourself. I would like you to hear this too." He said. Then he walked towards the boy, his threatening figure looming over him only inches away.  
  
"I want you to be angry, to be mad. I want you to be hurt. I want you to despise them, hate them, and abhor them with a passion. That is why I sent you to that school. You will learn to stand it to be around them, and at the end gain your revenge. You and your puny figure would have no chance against those other boys who are bigger than you. So, they would hurt you. That was how those filthy people thought, and I took it to my advantage. Then you will fight for yourself, and know the power of vengeance. You will learn to love it. When you have learned to hate, you will have learned how to be a man. A man of this family's stature, and not of some low-class dirt."  
  
The mother could not believe her ears. This was her son's father. This was the man she married. This was the man she loved. How could he manipulate the boy like that? It was a sight that gave her a searing pain in her heart.  
  
The boy still averted his eyes from the two people in the room. He did not know what to feel, but he felt the hate unwillingly grow stronger inside of him.  
  
"I never beat you up, son. I have never held even a tiny hair follicle of yours. I give you everything you want, everything you need, and teach you everything you would need to know. This is good for you. Consider this an unspoken favor done."  
  
His son still sat quietly. It was not how the father expected this to happen. In his mind, he imagined this scene to be the moment he would be proud to be a father. His son would look at him, eyes beaming and lips grinned wide, and say how great a father he was. His son would be proud of his father for the ingenuous thing he did. He would be grateful. But he was not.  
  
"You will not be able to understand now, my son. I am just protecting you from the evils of this world."  
  
The mother could not say anything, and just stared at the floor. She was powerless.  
  
"What is your name, boy?" the father said, obviously knowing the answer but just wanting to hear it come from the boy's mouth.  
  
The boy did not respond. He continued to have his head bowed down, as if in a deep trance.  
  
"Well? You aren't bloody deaf, are you? Answer me!"  
  
It took a few seconds for the boy to move his lips. His body was shaking intensely, not wanting to be under his father's control. He lifted his head slightly but still did not make eye contact.  
  
"Dra.co."  
  
"Wrong." The father had a sly grin on him. "Stupid fool."  
  
"Your name is Malfoy. Malfoy. Never forget that."  
  
The father spun around and headed to the door, when he said, "Narcissa. Bedroom."  
  
The mother did not move. She stood rigid, and spoke out, "I want to talk to my son for a few minutes."  
  
"Go ahead." The father simply left. Narcissa knew what was ahead of her when she said that, and when she practically talked a while ago as a matter of fact. But she was ready to risk it. She needed to shake off what her husband told his son before it was too late.  
  
She kneeled down on the floor before his son, but did not touch him. She tried to look into his eyes, ready to say that he was his own individual, to not take what his father told him, to learn to love, to be a happy person. But before she could say anything, the boy held her mother's arms tightly and stared into her eyes. It was almost as if a bright flame was playing around the boy's deep pools of gray. His tiny hands did not hurt his mother, but she could feel the anger flowing in his veins. It was electric. He spoke whisperingly, his voice hard, whole and certain.  
  
"I hate muggles. They are filth, and they will pay." 


End file.
